Walking the Plank

“This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me.”

Jenna looked up from her leg, where she’d been slathering sunscreen with a smile on her face in the bright morning light as the 78’ sailboat she was keeping watch on gently bobbed and pushed further south in placid seas and easy wind.

She could smell the brandy mixed in with the coffee steaming out of Captain Norman’s mug. This guy was an asshole, and not the dream boss a 23-year-old, newly minted boat cook would have wished for, but HELL! Sometimes you have to make sacrifices to reach your ultimate goal, right?

She’d heard so many nightmare stories from other women who’d gotten into the maritime industry, and they didn’t sound much THAT much worse than the misogynistic environment she’s grown up in. She wanted to get paid to see the world, and if it meant putting in a little time in the employ of a total chauvinistic jerk who in very certain terms told her that “when we’re at sea, I can sexually harass you and there’s nothing you can do about it”, Jenna decided that she could handle a little more of that kind of trauma in her life.

But when the captain told her the night before to make sure he was awake at 8am, she did not expect THIS.

For the first time in days, land was in view. They were about to pull into port amid turquoise seas and interact with more than the skeleton crew that made the group up - a short, cheerful first mate from Trinidad, a gangly and freckled ginger Aussie deckhand and his elegant Hong Kong-born British girlfriend, and a fellow American chef chick who managed to convincingly laugh off Norman’s comments that he would be thinking about her during his masturbatory sessions each day. Everyone had managed almost 700 miles together sharing stories, movies, and laughs - except for the captain. He spent his days scowling, leering, and snapping. It made Jenna wonder why he did this job if he hated the people around him so much.

“YOU are shit,” he said, looking directly at her and pointing his index finger at her face. “Your food is shit and you’re never going to make it in this industry.”

Jenna felt like she’d just taken a punch to the guts, wind knocked out of her, eyes snapping wide open as adrenaline flooded her now rigid body. “Um - excuse me?” she managed, doing her best not to dissociate from the shock.

She had FINALLY managed to score this long-term chef position and entry into international waters with hard work, dedication, and amazing referrals from a number of shorter-term employers she’d worked with repeatedly. This was a normal progression in the freelance yacht and catering worlds. The rest of the crew had been so positive throughout the journey, clean plates all around every night, even from the asshole.

“You heard me! You’re getting off this boat at this port, you stupid cow. And you have a decision to make. Decide whether you want a one-way ticket home or the money I would spend buying it for you - and I’d recommend going home. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing and you make me sick.”

Vomit started to rise in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. How could she make lemonade out of this EXTREMELY sour situation? She spent her whole life getting back up after being knocked down - what would a NORMAL person do?

“Okay…” she stammered, tears starting to leak out. “For future reference, what could I do better next time?”

“Next time? NEXT TIME? There will be no next time! I can’t believe you’re even so stupid! Get your fat ass back to…” He kept shouting, but Jenna’s senses had closed off - the familiar freeze was here. He would stop by the time they were in earshot of the waiting customs officials on the dock because abuse only likes a “captive” audience, one the abuser can control. It was why though the other crew members had attempted to come on deck, they quickly averted their eyes and went back down below. This was the man who provided their paychecks and currently provided them with a home. You just don’t stand up to that.

“Go and pack your bags. You’re getting off of this boat as soon as we clear customs, and I want your decision when I pay you the wages that I owe you for this trip after I go to the bank tomorrow morning.” And then, he smirked, grinning the hard grin of a sadist satisfied he had just inflicted a critical blow.

Zombified by the guilt and shame of being both torn to shredds and fired, especially so unexpectedly, Jenna silently picked up the little black book she was recording tales of this trip in from the cockpit bench beside her and slipped down below, that lone leg still white with unabsorbed sunscreen. She was so discombobulated, the murmurings of the other crew members were sympathetic sounding but otherwise unintelligible.

Jenna had to come up with a survival plan immediately, because there was no actual “home” to go home to. She’d given up her rented room and spent almost every dollar she had on marine and chef equipment for this job. Fucking Norman! He knew this already, and she was sure he was getting pleasure out of knowing that until he paid her tomorrow, she probably didn’t even have enough to afford a room for the night.

But she packed her duffel, leaving it open so the first mate could search it to ensure she wasn’t stealing anything from the boat. Of course she wasn’t - not only did she have too much integrity to steal, she’d already triple checked to make sure there wasn’t a scrap of anything that would carry the toxic energy of this ratty ship into the world with her. Plus, do the wrong thing in this patriarchal business, and your career is toast.

A few hours later, once the shame-faced mate was done with his duty, Jenna threw the 60lb bag over one shoulder and her backpack over the other to take leave while the others washed down the boat.

Norman, as usual, was leaving his duties to the underlings. He was at the far end of the finger dock smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer when Jenna stepped off the side of the boat with only her backpack. “Be here by 8am or don’t expect a ticket home at all,” he sneered.

Jenna kept her back straight under the weight of the bags and walked the plank onto land, where the whole world got wobbly for a few minutes as she got her land legs back. The solidity beneath her magnified the gravity of her situation. Touching Mother Earth again was grounding in the reality of all of the dark feelings she hadn’t yet dared to release. If hope can spring eternal, hopelessness can, too, and it did.

And as if the entire Universe could feel her pain, it started to rain. As she walked, the bag got heavier as it got more sodden. A sign on the right of an interminably long wall-lined hill read “Admiralty House” and Jenna thought that maybe she could find shelter and respite for at least a few minutes. She turned in to find there was no actual house to enter. There were a few closed up buildings with rain gathering and streaming off of their bone-white coral roof eaves in waterfall style. At least she could see the harbor in the distance and the masts of the ship of pain she’dd left behind.

Desperate for some kind of cover, she cozied up to the trunk of the largest tree she could find to sink onto a dryish flat spot between crooked, ground-piercing roots. At least the rain was warm. She pulled her foul weather raincoat out of the duffel and covered up, sure she was going to rest only a minute, but between the stress release and exhaustion from walking miles in the rain with such heavy physical and emotional loads, she fell into the sleep of the dead - hard and dreamless. By the time she woke, both night and 8am had come and gone.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”, she started. “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!” Jenna jumped up, freaking out with the realization that she was left with NOTHING but what she had to carry on her back. She could see Norman in her mind’s eye, laughing that he’d won. She was cleared off the boat whose masts were gone from sight, signalling that they’d already moved on.

She had no work contract to get her wages or ticket. She was lucky enough to have her passport, which she’d taken to be able to get a hotel room which she clearly never had. The tears started flowing again. “You are so STUPID!”, she yelled at herself, placing the blame and shame on herself yet again .

Wetness blurring everything, Jenna leaned over to pick up her bags when she saw it. A weird packet of color buried under one of the roots of the tree. It was a fluttery layer upon layer of papery edges, like a mille-feuille pastry. With a touch and a tug, she pulled out a fat roll of bills, bug eaten on the outside but mostly intact. WHAT?!

$20,000 out of nowhere, clearly left so long it wasn’t a recent drop. TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS FROM NOWHERE. There were needles around the park, maybe it could have been drug money, but how had nobody found it for so long? She picked it up and made her way to the nearest bank.

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ONE YEAR AND THREE MONTHS LATER

Jenna woke up on a multimillion dollar yacht before sunrise, stretching like a cat comfortable in her home. She was the chef, after all, and the baked goods needed to be prepared before baking, and that fit with sunrise walking anyway. Knead, turn, knead again with love before they’re perfect. Like humanity.

That $20k saved her life, and she still had most of it, but the FREEDOM! Freedom to choose the captain as well as the pay. Jenna never imagined she could find a job where someone considering a human could actually make her a better chef. She won awards and notoriety, but more than that, she stopped looking over her shoulder for something to go wrong.

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But one day, that old boat and that old captain pulled up into the same port. And she watched him frog-marched off his boat by local police, hollering that “NO! NO! IT WAS JUST A JOKE!”